Familiar
by isaytoodlepip
Summary: This is how he gets revenge. Warnings: HW, dark content including suicide


Title: Familiar

Author: Tubesox

Rating: R

Warnings: H/W, dark, depictions of suicide

Summary: This is how he gets revenge.

No matter how far he slipped, it was the one thing no one ever expected of him. He was simply too stubborn, too arrogant, too ambitious, and ultimately too proud to do it. Wilson lectured him about his self-destructive behavior. He would nag and worry, stand there with his hands on his hips and run the gamut from concern to annoyance, but he'd never cross that one line. Sure, once he'd mentioned that a cancer kid might have a longer life, but his heart wasn't in it. And it had something to do with the drugs and their fallout, the strain on his liver, the escalation. Even the concern over the bike was about escalation. The accidental. No one ever stepped back and surveyed his life (unending pain, unending loneliness) and said, "We should intervene. He might kill himself." And they never said anything similar in a non-after-school-special kind of way, either. Not even Cuddy, who wasn't afraid to be untactful.

He wanted to growl out a petulant "this'll show 'em" as he filled the syringe. But then, it wasn't the same without Wilson there to hear him. And that was the point, wasn't it? That's why he was tapping the needle and tapping his vein. Wilson wasn't there. _Maybe I shouldn't do this_, he thought. _Maybe it'll look too neat. Maybe it'll look too innocent_. He put the syringe down. Though he had no reason to expect Wilson to come looking for him, he knew he would. Some habits are impossible to break. He wouldn't turn up at the office. Chase would be relieved. Foreman would be indignant. Cameron would be worried. Maybe she'd give it until lunch before stopping by Wilson's office. _Have you seen House?_ Then she'd know they'd fought, because Wilson wouldn't look worried enough. So she'd mention it to Cuddy. Who would call. Who would curse. Who would go to Wilson and say _He's **your**_ _friend, so fix it_. And here is where House loses the thread of his certainty. Would Wilson call first? Or would he just come over? Should he bother leaving a special _Fuck You_ as his out-going message?

No. This would be enough. Wilson would come over. He'd let himself in, thinking that this would be the last time he'd use his key. He'd call out to him (and please let him say _you better be dead or dying_, the fucker). He'd walk down the hall (should it be the bathroom or the bedroom). He'd see the blood (an obscene amount) and then he'd see the body (should he be naked or in his uniform of t-shirt and jeans or maybe wearing that tie Wilson had forgotten to pack last night and nothing else). And then…he wasn't sure what then. What did he want to happen?

Gregory House was a master at reading people. He was a master at the situational. He was a master at the hypothetical. And sometimes, all that helped him from getting hurt. But more often than not, he let himself become willfully blind when it suited his immediate purposes. So when his best friend James Wilson came to him after another bad break-up and had moved in and drunkenly groped him and jokingly confessed that it was a sober impulse, House gave a moment's pause to think to himself _This'll turn out just like you expect it will_ before leading Wilson into his bedroom and letting him blow him. He was wrong, of course. Not about James leaving him (_I don't want to hurt you. This is too hard. I'm sorry I hurt you. I've met someone else_) but about how unexpected it would be. Little things disappearing from the apartment. A suit here and there. Socks. Underwear. That Sinatra cd he knew James liked to dance to at his weddings. He hadn't let himself see it. And, contrary to his character, he hadn't made himself easy to leave. Not like he had with Stacy. He didn't pick fights (more than usual). He wasn't cruel (more than usual). Was he playing dirty when he held on tight to James two mornings ago, hugging when he never hugged, smiling into Wilson's neck and telling him about…what? His hopes, dreams, aspirations? Or had it been more honest? (_I told him that we should call in sick. That every few weeks, usually after I'd had a big fight with Dad, Mom would call me in sick and she'd bring me breakfast in bed and stay there with me until mid-morning, making me laugh and making me forget that my Dad doesn't really love me. And then we'd go to a matinee and have lunch in some diner far away from the base and if the weather was decent we'd go to the park or the beach and watch people and dig our feet into the sand.)_ Wilson had hmm-ed and moaned when he slipped his hand down his lanky side, over the hips to cup him there softly. And then he rolled away and got dressed for work. And House let himself be blind to the slight.

That was a Tuesday. That was the day when they had sandwiches in the cafeteria and laughed at Chase's pathetic attempts to woo the new Cardiology nurse. That was the evening when they went to Brewer's for dinner, watched the Mets game over hamburgers and beer. That was the night when House hadn't planned ahead and they'd had to stop because it hurt just too damned much and Wilson stormed off into the kitchen, hard and cursing, and came back to shove a glass of water into his hand.

Then there was Wednesday morning's _please forgive me for failing_ blowjob. The rushed breakfast and reminders about Wilson's brother coming for a visit. The skipped lunch. The _we need to talk_. And was it cruel to sit there on his couch and stare at Wilson as he packed up his things and left him? And if it was, did he care? (_I'm sorry_.)

It was nearly eleven o'clock when Wilson called. Cameron was more perceptive than he'd thought (or was it paranoid?). _I can't come to the phone right now. My boyfriend broke my heart and I'm probably bleeding to death this very minute. But leave a message if you want. _("Cute, House. Just pick up. Fine. I'm not going to cover for you, so don't be surprised if Cuddy calls and don't bitch at me when she asks you about this stupid message.") And then he knew it was time. He didn't particularly want to die. He'd done it before and hadn't been all that impressed. But then, he didn't want to live either. How would that go? Wilson wouldn't buy the wounded puppy dog routine. And obviously he couldn't be guilted into coming back. If he acted too hurt, people would ask questions. Or rather, Cameron would ask questions. And he wouldn't be able to hide it. _Poor House has a broken heart. Serves the bastard right_. Who would want to go out like that? It was disgusting. Pathetic. No, now was the time. If he did it now, the coroner would tell Wilson the t.o.d was approximately eleven, and Wilson would remember the message and then he'd be destroyed. It was perfect. Two lives ruined for the price of one. (_I bet he gets a lot of pity pussy out of this. Bet he screws Cameron in her little black dress hours after the funeral. And maybe Cuddy, too. And maybe Chase. And Foreman wishes he can be me so badly that he'll be Wilson's new best friend. It'll be perfect. Like I never existed.)_

House went down the hall to his bedroom. He stripped the sheets and put them in his hamper (_I can imagine him wanting to curl up in these sheets, to find comfort in the smell of us and wallow in his guilt until he's euphoric from it. I'm going to bleed all over this fucking mattress and let that be what he wallows in.)_ He settled some weight on his leg and finding it steady enough, he broke his cane against his dresser (_I can imagine Dad looking at it in disgust and wanting to punish me by burying me with it._) He pulled on his jeans and a t-shirt and Wilson's green tie. He pulled out an old straight blade. He pulled it once, twice, across his skin. He pulled the wool from his eyes. (_We'd bury our bare feet in the sand and Mom would say, "I wish you wouldn't let him hurt you like this." "Isn't it up to him?" I'd ask. We'd watch children run by in gangs, teasing the ocean's swells and daring to dive in. "You know how he gets. If you know, it shouldn't come as a surprise. And if it's not a surprise, you can prepare for it," she'd say, brushing some sand off my face, just looking for any excuse to touch me with her paper-thin skin. "You cry every time we watch It's a Wonderful Life," I'd argue. "Just because it's familiar doesn't mean it's safe." It would be getting darker. He'd expect us to be home. "You're such a smart boy.")_


End file.
